“I’m not, though I generally avoid the forbidden meats.”
“You can eat around them. That’s what the Arabs do when I make it for them.”
“They come often?” probed Gabriel.
Helen Seymour rolled her eyes.
“Anyone in particular?”
“That Jordanian chap was just here. The one who wears Savile Row suits and speaks like one of us.”
“Fareed Barakat.”
“He’s quite fond of himself. And you, too,” she added.
“We’re on the same side, Fareed and I.”
“And what side is that?”
“Stability.”
“There’s no such thing, my dear. Not anymore.”
Gabriel gave Helen Seymour the room-temperature bottle of Sancerre he had purchased from Sainsbury’s in Berkeley Street. She placed it directly in the freezer.
“I saw your picture in theTimesthe other day,” she said, closing the door. “Or was it theTelegraph?”
“Both, I’m afraid.”
“It wasn’t one of your better ones. Perhaps this will help.” She poured a large glass of Albariño. “Graham’s waiting for you upstairs. He says you two have something to discuss before dinner. I suppose it has to do with Vienna. I’m not allowed to know.”
“Consider yourself fortunate.”
Gabriel climbed the wide staircase to the second floor. Light spilled from the open doorway of the stately book-lined study where Graham Seymour, the successor of Cumming, Menzies, White, and Oldfield, waited in splendid isolation. He wore a gray chalk-stripe suit and pewter necktie that matched the color of his plentiful locks. His right hand cradled a cut-glass tumbler filled with a clear distilled beverage. His eyes were fixed on the television screen, where his prime minister was responding to a reporter’s question about Brexit. For his part, Gabriel was glad for the change of subject.
“Please tell Lancaster how much his unwavering support meant to me in the days after Vienna. Let him know he can call anytime he needs a favor.”
“Don’t blame Lancaster,” replied Seymour. “It wasn’t his idea.”
“Whose was it?”
“Mine.”
“Why not keep your mouth shut? Why hang me out to dry?”
“Because you and your team ran a bad operation, and I didn’t want it to rub off on my service or prime minister.” Seymour glanced disapprovingly at Gabriel’s wine and then wandered over to the trolley and refreshed his drink. “Can I interest you in something a bit stronger?”
“An acetone on the rocks, please.”
“Olives or a twist?” With a careful smile, Seymour declared a temporary cessation of hostilities. “You should have let me know you were coming. You’re lucky you didn’t miss me. I’m flying to Washington in the morning.”
“The cherry blossoms aren’t in bloom for at least another three months.”
“Thank God.”
“What’s on the agenda?”
“A routine meeting at Langley to review current joint operations and set future priorities.”
